Atlas
by chrissie0707
Summary: A WIP collection of humor, H/C, and angst shorts based on each of the fifty states. No particular order in posting. Spoilers for the entire series. Warning for inevitable foul language. Chapter Five: H/C, S4, set after "Yellow Fever." It's only been a few weeks that Dean's been back, and it's not been as easy an adjustment as they'd like to think.
1. Kansas: Halfway to Everywhere

_Author Notes: This is going to be a collection featuring a short inspired in some way by each of the fifty states, and I want to work in as many urban legends as possible. Anything from the series is fair game, so the upcoming shorts, or in the case, chapters, will run the gamut from pre-series through the current season, with no particular chronological or alphabetical order. I would classify the genres (knowing me, as I do) to skew H/C and humor, with bits of angst. This collection will be posted WIP._

 _First up: Kansas. S5. Booze, bucket lists and basketball. Getting Sammy to the basketball game he's always wanted takes a darker turn._

* * *

 **Atlas**

 _Kansas: Halfway to Everywhere_

* * *

Dean is swaying on his stool like a pendulum.

Not enough to be concerning, and not due to anything more than that last round, the one that Sam knew was going to be the tipping point even as Dean was ordering it. He's flushed and glassy-eyed, but doesn't seem to be in any immediate danger of going all the way to the floor, and Sam wouldn't normally feel uneasy, but his brother's got a worrisome look on his face; the one that usually precedes him saying something either insanely stupid or truly terrifying.

Sam is, perhaps strangely, given the options, hoping against stupid but finds the odds stacked against him as he surveys the loud, smoky bar. There are a handful of threatening-looking guys in the corner leering dangerously at a couple of girls who are laughing quietly and nervously as they dance in a tight circle close to the bar top. The men look nasty, and the girls look like they had to have gotten past the bouncer by the virtue of their fake IDs or pretty faces. Dean's not necessarily a white knight, but this is exactly the kind of situation he's known to interject his attitude and fists into, and with the way things have been going lately, Sam figures his brother's going to jump at the chance to take a swing at someone who even halfway deserves it.

Even so, Sam doesn't feel like watching Dean throw a half-assed attempt at cleaning split knuckles tonight, and fully intends on cutting him off at the pass. He watches his brother's jaw clench as one of the assholes moves toward the bar. "Dean." Softly, a warning, because these guys are huge, and Dean is clearly sloppy.

Dean doesn't seem to hear him, lost in thought, eyes shifting between the gang of galoots and the cluster of young girls. His hand moves mechanically to grasp his empty glass, but he doesn't bring it to his lips, just rolls the tumbler between his fingers, its thick base scraping along the polished wood of the tabletop.

"Dean."

"Heard you the first time."

"Then what's with the silent treatment?"

"I'm thinkin.'"

Sam nods. _No shit._ "About starting a fight or about robbing the cradle?"

"What?" Dean glances back at the girls, eyes widening appreciatively, like he's noticing them and their short denim skirts for the first time. "Neither. Mind outta the gutter, Sammy."

 _Huh._ Sam's honestly surprised to know he may have misread the entire situation in front of him. "Then spill, Jack Handy."

"Hmm?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "What's with the deep thoughts?"

Dean looks into in the bottom of his empty glass, decides that's just not going to cut it, and motions for the waitress. "I dunno…just, what are some of the things you've always wanted to do, but haven't gotten around to? Or, you know, haven't had a chance to do?"

 _What the hell now?_ Dean's never been one for segues, but this is coming from so far out in left field that Sam thinks he very well might need another beer just to understand what the hell he's talking about. "What?"

Dean throws a hand up in the air. "It's the apocalypse, Sammy. End of days. Bucket list, let's hear it."

Sam ducks his head, speaks quietly yet firmly. "Yeah, Dean, I'm not getting into any sort of bucket list type of conversation with you."

"What? Why not?"

"Because you're upset. And you're drunk."

"What?" Dean repeats, too loudly. People are starting to stare.

Sam rolls his eyes and takes their drinks from the wide-eyed waitress with a nod of thanks. "Yeah, we're all a little surprised, trust me."

"Whatever, Sam. Just…come on. Humor me. What's on your bucket list?"

Sam sighs and takes a long pull from his beer. "I don't know, Dean." He claps his hands on his thighs, plays ball and underhands a few. "To finish school. Settle down somewhere, I guess. I always wanted a dog."

Dean scoffs and drains his glass. "Those are boring," he says, calling Sam on his bull. "You're so vanilla."

"Okay," Sam concedes. "I've always wanted to see a game at Allen Fieldhouse."

"Basketball?" Dean slaps his palm on the table and Sam jumps. "I'll take it."

"What? Dean, what are you talking about?"

"Let's go get you a basketball game, mark somethin' off that list."

Sam leans across the table. "Okay, Dean, what is this about, really?"

Dean doesn't respond, is busy thumbing down the browser on his cell phone. Sam didn't even know he knew how to use the damned thing for more than calls and texts. "Looks like we got a game at Allen tomorrow night." He looks up at Sam with a lopsided grin. "When's the last time we did something like this, huh?"

Sam sits back, runs a hand through his hair. "Uh, never. We've never done anything like this."

"'Bout damn time, wouldn't you say?"

"Let's set aside the fact you're acting crazy, for just a second." Sam sips another mouthful of cold beer while he contemplates his words. "Dean, this would mean going back to Lawrence."

"Yeah, so?"

"So we haven't been back there since…I mean, YOU haven't been back there since…"

Dean looks up from the screen of his phone and his eyes are wide, but focused. "Since the djinn. Sam, it happened. You can say it. Besides, we've got a – a frickin' _boatload_ of bigger fish to fry."

"Dean, we're also, like, twelve hours out of Lawrence." Sam gestures vaguely to the collection of empties on the tabletop. "And you're…you know…"

"I'm what? Come on, you know I'm an awesome drunk driver." Dean leans back, reaching out a hand to grip the edge of the table as he nearly, finally, _just_ about tips his stool far enough to send himself to the peanut shell-littered floor.

Sam doesn't feel like he should need to point out that this is the exact wrong place to be making such declarations. He knows his expression is the pinched one that as good as antagonizes his brother, and Dean rolls his eyes just as expected, beckoning the waitress back with a whistle.

"Hey, sweetheart. Can I get your largest coffee, black, to go?"

He's got that thousand-watt smile going for him, so despite the whistle, despite the _sweetheart_ , she grins and nods before turning her attention to Sam. "Anything for you?"

"Oh, yeah," Dean, encouraged, cuts in before Sam can speak. "My brother would _love_ a glass of warm milk, if you can swing it." And then he even winks at her.

Sam smiles tightly around his sudden nausea. "I'm okay, thanks." The waitress saunters away and he turns back to his brother. "Speaking of bigger fish to fry, don't you think we should be focusing on, oh, I don't know, the damn apocalypse?"

"Screw the apocalypse, Sam. A couple of days ain't gonna change anything. We're doing this."

"You don't even like basketball." Sam frowns and snaps his fingers as Dean pulls his wallet and keys from his coat pocket.

Dean forks over the key ring without a fight and shrugs, digging out a couple of wrinkled bills from the pocket of his wallet. "No, but you do."

* * *

Sam only drives as far as it takes Dean to get the coffee down, which is rather impressive, and then his brother insists on taking over.

He crumbles the paper to-go cup and tosses it to the floor mat, then crams a pointy elbow into Sam's ribcage. "Come on, Grandma. We're never gonna make it in time with you behind the wheel."

So they switch spots on the bench, and then Dean's thumbs sporadically tap out an off-tempo beat against the steering wheel between the next set of state lines, before Sam finally snaps off the radio.

Dean's head whips over, eyes wide and caffeinated. "What's up, buzzkill?"

"What are we doing, Dean?"

"We're going to a basketball game, Sammy."

"We're driving all night across the country for a basketball game?" Sam sighs and adjusts on the seat. He doesn't know why he ever even attempts to draw an honest answer from Dean. "Okay," he says, because they're trapped in the car together and not getting out anytime soon.

"Okay." Dean reaches out to turn the radio on again, eyes sliding toward his brother. "Why don't you just relax and get a little shut-eye, and we'll be there before you know it."

There's a part of Sam that's hard-wired to resisting anything he's told to do by anyone, particularly by Dean, but drowsiness tugs at him as soon as his eyes drop closed, and before he knows it he's being shaken awake to a yellowish haze of afternoon sunshine as they rumble past the sign welcoming them to Kansas.

* * *

On the way out of the Fieldhouse, Sam slings a new soft gray tee over his shoulder and grins. "You totally hated that, didn't you?"

Dean screws up his nose, draws his shoulders in as a couple of incredibly drunk, whooping college students shove past him. "It's just a hell of a lot of people, Sam. Really loud people, and really bright lights."

"Well, thanks." Sam gives his brother a light bump with his elbow to make sure he has Dean's attention. "Really. It means a lot. You doin' this."

"Yeah, whatever." The novelty of the situation seems to have completely worn off, a more familiar and situationally appropriate air of gravity and exhaustion replacing the previous night's maverick-y gleam in his brother's eyes.

They walk the rest of the way to the car in silence, and when they arrive at the Impala Sam leans against the frame. "You know what else we should do while we're here?"

"Hmm?" Tentatively, like he's terrified Sam's going to suggest they do a drive-by on the old house.

He wouldn't ever, because that house wasn't ever HOME to Sam, and doesn't like to twist that knife that's always stuck in his brother's heart. "There's a local urban legend we should totally check out. A topical one, too, now that I'm thinking about it."

Dean raises his eyebrows, predictably interested in anything that smells like a hunt and potential violence. "Talk to me."

"Well, there's this old cemetery nearby." Sam squints, thinking. "Uh, Stull Cemetery. Supposedly, it's one of seven gateways to Hell."

"What, like the devil's gate in Wyoming?"

"Yeah, according to legend, but as far as I know nothing's ever come of it. It's gotta be totally bogus, right? I mean, if there's _anywhere_ Dad thought a doorway to Hell might actually be, don't you think he'd have come back here and done something about it?"

Dean's fidgeting with the car keys, squints across the roof of the car. "How do you know he didn't?"

"Because I know Dad's journal by heart, and you know it better than me. There's absolutely nothing in there about Stull."

"Then why even bother?"

Sam shrugs, jerking open the car door. "Because it's interesting. And creepy."

"You are such a geek," Dean says, shaking his head. "Anyway, creepy pretty much finds us twenty-four seven. It's just no fun if you go looking for it." He opens his own door, letting the _creak_ of the old girl punctuate his statement.

But after he drops onto the bench, Sam's intrigued by Dean's hesitance. "What happened to the bucket list?"

Dean gestures between them with the keys in his hand. "This is a bucket list thing?"

Sam shrugs and exhales. "I don't know. It's interesting and we're here. I mean, why not?"

"Yeah, sure. Why not."

* * *

Even Sam knows that Sam always wins, especially whenever they resort to a quick shoot of Rock, Paper, Scissors to make a decision.

They grab a room for the night at a nearby motel, which Sam argues was necessary even if they _weren't_ going to roll by the cemetery in the morning, because Dean just drove about ten hours straight on the heels of a fair amount of stress and whiskey with a zero sleep chaser.

The copious amount of sunshine that welcomes them in the morning becomes eclipsed by cloud cover as they drive, and a chill drops over the flat landscape. The trees on either side of the road are bare, typical of late autumn, and dried, fallen leaves swirl and brush ominously across the blacktop.

Sam had looked up directions the night before, and has to point out all of the turns, some of them coming up so quickly he thinks Dean might be driving at speeds high enough to intentionally miss them altogether.

But eventually they pull up to tall, rusty iron gates standing open at the end of the long drive – originally, perhaps ironically, named Devil's Lane – and they creak like the Impala's doors as they sway in the wind. Dean shuts off the ignition but doesn't make a move to get out of the car.

Sam swallows. Not only the hunter, but also the curious boy in him is itching to inspect the graveyard, but there's no denying the odd feeling that has settled in the car. "There's a little church on the grounds. There's no roof, but apparently rain doesn't fall inside."

"I'm not waitin' around for it to rain, Sammy." Dean's playing it off well enough, but something about the place has clearly got him spooked.

"Let's just check it out real quick. You know, put the legend to rest for good."

Dean nods tightly, and Sam exits the car. He swings the door shut and realizes Dean hasn't even lifted his hands from the steering wheel. He stoops to peer through the open window and sees that his brother is also chalk-white, staring at the gates, and maybe not playing it off so well, after all. "What's up?"

Dean's fingers tighten around the wheel. "Sammy, get back in the car."

"Dean, come on – "

"Get in the car, Sam." Dean's tone is low, even. Scared, in a way that would be entirely unfamiliar if not for what happened with that Frank O'Brien case last year.

This level of fear and uneasiness is a rarity, and it draws Sam back to the Impala like he's on a bungee. He sits softly on the seat and stares at his brother. "Dean, really. There's nothing to be worried about here."

"I don't like it." Dean shakes his head, and every muscle he's got seems tensed to pop. "I don't want you going out there."

"Okay," Sam relents, head bobbing. "Okay. We won't check it out."

Jaw clenched, Dean nods. Without a word he wrenches the key in the ignition and brings his baby back to life with a growl.

* * *

Sam lets a certain yet unquantifiable number of miles fall behind them before he lets the words out. "What was up with you back there?"

"Just didn't like the vibe I was gettin' from that place. Can't that be it?"

"Yeah, it can. If it is."

"Well, it is."

"Okay." Sam settles on the seat, sets his gaze out the window. "So what about you?"

Dean readjusts his grip on the steering wheel and jerks his head, eliciting a deep _pop_ from his neck or shoulder blades. "What about me?"

"You're the one that started talking bucket lists." Sam rubs his palms along his thighs. "What's yours look like?"

Dean purses his lips, makes it look like he's considering Sam's words, but Sam's smart enough to know otherwise. "Don't have one."

"What about Lisa?"

"No, Sammy." Dean shakes his head. "I don't dream like that anymore." He cracks his neck again and jerks the radio dial, setting the volume at a level to let Sam know this is exactly where he needs to drop this train of thought.

Dean might say he doesn't dream like that anymore, but Sam's smart enough to know otherwise.

* * *

 _Six months later…_

Dean's hanging on by a thread, no two ways about it. "Did you see where the title fight goes down?"

Chuck is frustratingly elusive, as always, even with the safety of space between them _. "The angels are keeping it top secret. Very hush-hush."_

Dean drops his head, which is suddenly feeling so, so heavy. "Aw, crap."

Chuck speaks quickly _. "But - I saw it anyway. Perks of being a prophet. It's tomorrow, high noon. Place called Stull Cemetery."_

"Stull Ceme – " Dean's head comes up, and a chill travels down his spine. "Wait, I know that. That's – that's an old boneyard outside of Lawrence. Why Lawrence?"

" _I don't know. It all has to end where it started, I guess."_

Dean swallows the lump in his throat. _Yeah, I guess._

7


	2. South Dakota: You Must Be Lost

_Author Notes: This is the result of a group of prompts, which combined to produce a story that is not at all what I had planned to write when I got around to SD._

 _Summary: Sam's tipping point. Mid-S9. Brief strong language. A dramatic last trip to Bobby's place turns unexpectedly into a close call that has Sam rethinking the line he's drawn with his brother. Dramatic front half, H/C on the back end._

 _Prompts at the end._

* * *

 **Atlas**

 _South Dakota:_ _You Must Be Lost_

* * *

Sam finds himself going for a lot of runs lately. Sometimes to escape the increasingly claustrophobic feel of the bunker ever since Dean's taken to calling this place they've happened upon "home." Sometimes just for the assurance, however short-lived, that he's exhibiting some degree of control over his own body, ever since the sickening knowledge there was a block of indeterminable time recently in which he wasn't.

This particular run is cut short some time before he makes it to town, by the _beep_ of an incoming call that interrupts the calming playlist he uses to drown out the thoughts of his over-productive and never quiet mind, tunes Dean has always sneered at and refused to acknowledge as music. Sam knows better than to even think it might be Dean calling him with news. The way he's been working, it's more likely he would drop everything and cut out solo at the first sign of a hot lead than to consider letting Sam in on what he'd found.

Sam digs his cell from the pocket of his hoodie, studies the screen and slows to a stop along the rocky berm of the blacktop. He drags his earbuds away and grants the sheriff the courtesy of a true connection. "Jody, hey. Everything okay?"

" _Now, what would make you jump straight to 'everything okay?'"_

Sam grins, letting the familiarity and friendliness of her voice drape over him like a warm blanket, a brief respite from the grayish gloom of their day-to-day. "Because I can't remember the last time you called to make small talk."

" _Good point. Anyway, I think I should be the one here asking if everything's all right."_

"Why's that?"

" _Been leaving messages for Dean for a couple of weeks now, but I haven't heard back from him. Didn't panic, because I know the kind of crap you boys get knee-deep in, but I figured it was time I checked in, see if he's made a decision."_

Sam frowns. "Made a decision about what?"

" _Well…about Bobby's place."_

"What about it?"

" _Dean didn't tell you?"_

 _Why would he start now?_ Sam thinks bitterly. He squints across the road and scratches a phantom itch on the back of his neck that feels more like general irritation. "Dean's had a lot on his mind lately," he grits, shifting his gaze toward the bright morning sun. "What didn't he tell me?"

" _The house, or what's left of it, has been abandoned for over two years. I've stalled what I could for as long as I could, but the property's been condemned, Sam. The city's going to go in and take it the rest of the way down."_

"What?" Sam exclaims. He turns immediately back in the direction of the bunker. "They can't do that. I mean, when he…Bobby left everything to Dean when – "

" _Yeah, and I'm not the only one who's had calls go unanswered and unreturned. Like I said, I've done all I can, but it's out of my hands. Most of the cars have been cleaned out already, but if there's anything on the property you boys might still want, or if you just want to take one last look around, you have until Wednesday."_

"Yeah." Sam nods, chewing his lip in frustration. "Yeah, okay. We'll see you then."

" _Sam…Sam, I'm sorry, but that ship has sailed. I'm expected in Pierre on Tuesday for two days of meetings. I'm not going to be able to be there with you boys."_

"Yeah, okay," he says again, jaw clenched to the point of pain. "Thanks for calling me, Jody."

" _Okay, now I gotta ask. Sam, is everything okay?"_

She's not an unperceptive woman, but Sam can't even begin to think about how to answer that question.

* * *

Sam finds Dean just where and as he knew he would. Since Magnus – Sinclair, WHOEVER – Dean's thrown himself into the search for Abaddon in a way Sam's never seen him work before. Blind obsession, in much the same way their own father lost himself in the hunt for Azazel. And that hunt turned into years, and years into decades, and they know to what end. And just how often history repeats itself in the Winchester family.

Sam frowns, presses out Dean's number and waits across the spacious library room, concealed by wide pillar and shadow. Watches the screen of the cell phone light up from its perch atop a pile of closed Men of Letters files, watches as his brother studies the message _Sam Calling_ , watches as a debates plays cross Dean's face, whether or not to answer the call.

Dean sniffs audibly and leans forward, snatching up the phone before the fourth ring, catching the call right before voicemail. "Yeah," he grounds out as the cell smacks his ear, voice deep and rough from infrequent use. The guy who would never shut up, now barely speaking at all.

Sam ducks farther out of sight and keeps his own voice low. "Just checking in."

" _Where are you?"_ An odd echo through hall and device as Sam moves away.

"Out for a run." Just enough truth to sidestep suspicion, just as he'd been raised.

" _And you thought you needed to check in why?"_

"Nothing. I'll tell you later."

" _Yeah. Sure."_

Dean disconnects the call before Sam has the opportunity to say another word, and he has to marvel at the fact that for maybe the first time ever, Dean has given him exactly what he'd asked for. A work-only relationship.

But if this is what Sam wants, why does it feel so wrong?

* * *

Dean raises his eyebrows, but not his eyes. Those he keeps strained and trained on the heaps of paperwork laid out across the surface of both tables as Sam pads down the polished steps. "Didn't hear you come in."

Sam trots with put-upon casualness across the tiled floor, ruffling his damp hair with a hand as he sidesteps both a teetering tower of hardbound books and the accusation buried in Dean's greeting. "Then maybe you're getting rusty." He stuffs his hands into the warm pockets of his sweatshirt and stands at the far end of the table, refusing to ask what it is Dean's looking into now. Every lead he's explored thus far has turned up colder than the walk-in cooler in the kitchen.

"Yeah." Either the comment or the mere fact of Sam's hovering presence has Dean reaching for the glass of whiskey settled precariously close to the edge of the table. His other hand scrubs at the reddish-brown beard growth covering his chin. His clothes are wrinkled, and he's not exactly smelling like a fresh spring flower.

"Just having a thought here, but you do know this place has showers, right?"

Dean swallows a mouthful from his glass, just barely raising his eyes to narrow at Sam over the rim. "Did you need somethin'?"

"Jody called."

Dean seems to blank on the name. It's only for a moment, just a brief flash of unrecognition, but a concerning one, nonetheless. This is just another in an emerging pattern of instances in which Dean isn't acting anything like himself. It's the Mark, or the sheer volume whiskey he's consuming lately, or some combination of both, going to work over the past few weeks twisting Dean into a nearly unrecognizable caricature, someone better suited for a primetime drama than the job they have before them.

Sam had asked Dean not to act like his brother, and hell if the man isn't doing a fine job of fulfilling that request. He's little more than a stranger these days.

He pushes concern away and opts instead for annoyance, because concern is what usually guides poor decision-making and lands them in all sorts of trouble. He rolls his eyes and steps forward. "Jody Mills? You know, we've known her for years, saved her life a couple of times. She helped me bring you back from 1944, which, by the way, saved YOUR sorry ass?"

"Right." Dean nods and throws back the whiskey left his glass. He's such a taste for the drink now that he doesn't even react to the burn. He lets the tumbler land on the table with a hollow thunk that resonates throughout the hall, and immediately moves to look for a refill. He's got bottles stashed everywhere in this sprawling fortress he'd initially treated with such reverence and respect, like the whole damn bunker has been demoted to his personal liquor cabinet. "What'd she have to say?"

"That she's called you a couple of times. Left you messages, but you haven't called her back."

Dean doesn't react to having this information thrown in his face any more than he did his drink, like he has his emotions so carefully guarded and controlled as to be undetectable, no weakness to be found in his armor. Neither is true, but he's sure making a convincing go of it. "Always got a cougar-y kind of vibe from her. Thought she was making those eyes at you, though."

"Knock it off, Dean." Sam taps ungentle fingertips against the wooden table top to punctuate his frustration. "She was calling about Bobby's place."

Dean's jaw twitches in a way that only Sam would recognize. He's been caught, and he knows won't be talking himself out of this one. He's also being forced to think and speak about something that's going to require unlocking that guarded box inside. "What about it?"

"You didn't even listen to the messages?"

Dean pats the pile of folders, throw a hand over the spread of research. "Been kinda busy, Sam, knight of Hell on the loose and all. Haven't really had time for small talk."

 _Who are you?_ Sam thinks incredulously. "They're demo-ing the house, Dean. In three days. Bobby's place is about to be leveled."

Dean blinks a long moment, then runs a hand the length of his face, slumping into a chair. "I didn't know." He reaches over the arm of the chair, plucks a bottle sloshing with dark liquor from the floor. "I'm sorry, Sam."

Sam resists the urge to tell Dean exactly where he can cram his apology. He crosses his arms, waits with distanced courtesy for Dean to pour himself another drink before pressing on. "What do you wanna do?"

It takes Dean nearly the entire glass of whiskey and much too long to answer, and when he does it's contrived, as though he's putting words into a sentence like a child stacks blocks into a tower, knowing that one too many will bring the entire thing down around him. "Yeah," he says slowly. "We should probably go."

Sam shakes his head, disgusted, and wonders again, _Who ARE you?_

* * *

This is the first time they've ever set boots on soil in Sioux Falls without a friendly face to greet them, without a familiar home to welcome them. Sam feels suddenly like an outsider in a town he's grown accustomed to, but Dean seems not to care, eyes never straying from the road stretched out before them, approaching this with the same single-minded focus he's given to the hunt for the demon.

He takes the turns and roads that will bring them to Bobby's, but does it all in a stiff, robotic way. Silent not from roiling emotions below the surface, as to be expected, but almost as though it's not affecting him at all. This is BOBBY, for Chrissakes, and this is not how Dean should be acting as they finally close the book on what's left of the man who was more of a father to him than their own old man. But to say so, to begin THAT conversation, would be to crack the spine of an entirely different book, one that Sam's shut firmly and put back in its spot on the shelf for the time being.

" _I'm saying, you want to work? Let's work. If you wanna be brothers…"_

So he stays quiet, deals with his own emotions internally and allows Dean to do the same, though he can only assume there are emotions to deal with. This is the way Dean prefers it, anyway.

They were here not too long ago, a rendezvous of sorts to deceive and trap Crowley. It was strange enough then to see the old place, but it doesn't compare to the sheer emptiness that now encompasses the vast property. The cars are all but moved out, just as Jody had told him, leaving a long stretch of uneven gravel spotted with flakes of rust and engine oil, patches of vibrantly colored buds and weeds beginning to poke through stark white stones that haven't had the pleasure of sunshine in over a decade.

They split up, and Sam loses sight of Dean somewhere along the lot, which is just as well.

The shop stands empty, tools and rags gone, the screws and washers that Bobby'd spent years collecting from interstate shoulders boxed up and stacked along the outside wall. Sam feels a hot rush of anger, looking at the haphazard tower of cardboard containers. Dean hadn't seen fit to take care of this, had been so goddamned preoccupied with finding Abaddon that he'd ignored a couple of phone calls, and now strangers have rifled through Bobby's things, packed them away as an unimportant mess to be disposed of when it's next convenient.

Next to the shop is the house, or what's left of it, and between blackened, fallen beams Sam thinks he can see Dean's dark head bobbing about inside. The anger monster pokes at Sam's gut and he steers clear, sets a course for the wide, forested yard beyond the charred back porch. Well past the unrecognizable structure of a former home that was as good as theirs is the stump of the willow tree Sam and Dean chopped down for the hunter's funeral pyre.

Sam takes slow steps across the tall grass, remembering that long, terrible day like it was yesterday.

 _Sam watches as Dean notches the first mark in the trunk, as he hauls the hatchet back once more with a grunt. "Why this tree?"_

" _It has to be willow."_

" _I don't – "_

" _It has to be willow, Sam." Dean drags his forearm across his forehead, replacing sweat with dirt. "You don't need to ask why."_

 _It's another reference, another inside joke Sam is on the outside of, another callback to a memory Sam doesn't have because he wasn't there. He did it to himself, though, and he knows that. Removed himself from the lives of everyone who was important to him. Everyone he was important to._

 _The fire_ cracks _and_ pops _as it gains momentum, and the flames thankfully grow tall and thick enough conceal the sight of Bobby's wrapped body catching and burning. They don't speak as they watch. Dean might welcome it, might even thrive on it, but Sam doesn't do well with silence._

" _Bobby, you – "_

" _No. Don't say anything. He wouldn't need us to."_

" _Dean. I just want him to know – "_

" _He knows, Sammy. He knows."_

If only he knew what's become of Dean since then.

Dean clomps out of the house and breaks Sam from his reverie. He takes a moment at the bottom of the squat steps to stomp ash out of the soles of his boots. "There's nothing left," he says calmly.

 _Yeah,_ Sam thinks, shoulders hunched from a chill that isn't entirely seasonal. _I'm starting to get that._

* * *

They decide, or more accurately Sam decides for them, because he figures he's owed a few decisions, to stay the night in town. He already knows how little Dean is sleeping and sandwiching an emotionally exhausting day between two six-hour drives isn't something he's interested in. They're not as young as they used to be, as his own thinning hair and Dean's constantly creaking knees can attest to.

Walking back from the vending machines, Sam finds Dean packing a bag at the trunk, lid of the false bottom propped up as always with one of the shotguns. _What the hell?_ They hadn't checked in even a half-hour ago, and he couldn't have been gone for more than five minutes.

As Sam watches, Dean grabs extra salt rounds and the EMF detector. "You going ghost-hunting?"

Dean nods stiffly, his body tight with pent-up energy. "You might need some beauty sleep, but I can't just sit around and do nothing. There's an old road on the east side of town, and an old ghost story to match."

Sam crams the cold can of Coke into the pocket of his coat. "You're talking about Spook Road? Yeah, I remember, but that's just a story. Bobby used to try to scare us with it when we were kids."

"Yeah. Well, a couple of teenagers went missing there last week."

"How do you know that?" Then he sees the corner of the police scanner peeking out from under a pile of discarded clothing. "You looked for a case while we're here to take care of Bobby's property?"

Dean is disinterested in Sam's disbelief, just jerks the zipper of his duffel closed. "Hunting's what we do."

"Not when we're taking care of family business," Sam argues.

"Yes, when we're taking care of family business." Dean frames the open trunk with his hands and looks up at Sam. "This is family business. THE family business." He hangs his head for a moment, chuckles in a quiet, uncharacteristically cold manner. "And while we're at it, since when do you and I have any family business, huh, hunting buddy?"

Sam shakes his head and sighs, resigned to not give Dean the response he's looking for. "Knock it off, Dean. If something spooky was up…" he pauses to wince at the inadvertent pun. "Don't you think Jody would have mentioned it?"

"Maybe she doesn't know the story. Kids go missing all the time." Dean yanks the bag out of the trunk and shuts the lid. "Anyway. You coming or not?"

 _Or not,_ Sam wants to say. Wants to scream it and shake Dean until this darkness inside of him comes out.

"Yeah, sure," is what he actually says, and goes about packing a second bag.

Someone has to keep Dean's sorry ass alive.

* * *

There should still be an hour or so of daylight left, but the dense foliage overhead is obscuring a lot of natural light as they maneuver a well-traveled but currently deserted trail away from the blacktop.

They hike far enough into the woods to lose sight of both the sun and civilization before Dean jiggles his flashlight. "We got missing teenagers at ten o' clock," he says grimly.

Sam's eyes and own flashlight drift that direction, coming to a stop on two bodies in a shallow ditch, surprisingly close to the trail. "Damn."

The bloated bodies of the kids are twisted and muddy, though closer inspection with the beam of the light reveals that the dark smudges on their clothes and skin may not all be mud.

"You happen to come across any motive for this spirit?" Sam inquires, crouching nearby to study the bodies. There are a few obvious injuries, the odd, jutting angles of broken bones and various scrapes and contusions, but nothing that matches up with the manner in which they are now sprawled. Like they fell, hard and far, but somewhere else in the woods, and were later positioned in this spot.

The beam of Dean's light leaves the bodies as it sweeps the area behind Sam. "Didn't get that far. Was thinkin' recon, then maybe coming back if anything turned up."

Sam nods. "Something's off, that's for sure. No way we're the first to check this area out if these two have been missing a week. How'd we find them so easy?"

"Just our kind of day, I guess."

Sam shakes his head and brings up a hand to cover his nose and mouth as the smell starts to get to him. "Dean, these bodies were placed here. Waiting to be found."

"If it was a spirit that killed them, why would it do that?" Dean's light is bouncing around the trees and brush surrounding them, rapidly picking up the pace, like he's moving about over and over in a jerky circle.

The motion has Sam raising an eyebrow and rotating to face Dean. Just as he does so, he can't help but notice the sudden, obvious drop in temperature. "In Bobby's stories, the spirit always went after lost hikers, right?"

Dean stomps up and down the path, squinting into the growing dark. He stops and exhales a long breath, frowning as the puff of air mists in front of his face. "Yeah," he saying, turning to Sam. "But we're not lost."

Sam stares pointedly, and Dean grits his teeth, the tension along his jaw visible.

"I'm not lost, Sam."

"Yeah." _Maybe not in the traditional sense,_ Sam supplements silently.

"I know exactly where we are. The road is…" Dean gestures dramatically to his left, then looks to his right. "Or…wait."

Sam sighs, not seeing any need in adding that he, too, is suddenly finding himself unable to remember from which direction they came. "Yeah."

"I don't exactly see you pointing out the way to the exit," Dean snaps, calling him on it immediately.

Sam digs his cell phone out of his jacket pocket. "I don't want to be predictable or anything, but I'm not getting a signal."

Dean angrily punches buttons on his own phone. "Yeah, me either." He waves a hand in Sam's general direction, letting the beam of his light nail him right in the eyes. "And what the hell did you mean with that pissy look you just gave me?"

Sam sighs, aiming for patient instead of patronizing. "I'm just saying, maybe the stories we heard as kids aren't telling the whole…story. Maybe's it's not just a _literal_ lost that draws the ghost out."

"Excuse me?"

"You're not exactly acting like yourself, Dean. Ever since…" Sam gestures vaguely to the spot on Dean's right arm that holds the Mark of Cain.

"Don't turn me into a metaphor, Sam," Dean growls, rubbing the spot on his arm. "And don't turn me into a ghost story, either. You know what? Screw all of this. Anyone wandering around here deserves to get ghost-snatched."

"Where are you going?"

"Back to the car. You coming?" Dean moves a few paces down the trail before noticing that Sam isn't following. He turns but continues to retreat with big, blind steps backwards. "Sam!" he barks. "Let's – "

The "go" is caught in Dean's throat as a misstep sends him careening down an incline so steep he might not have had time to see it even if he was watching where he was going.

Sam doesn't have time to move or react, can only gape as he watches it happen.

Dean is there, and then he's GONE.

Gone with a rustle of leaves so deceptively calm and serene it's almost as though an evening autumn breeze had disrupted them, and not his big, loud, larger than life brother stepping off the edge of the world. Sam grips the straps of his bag and hauls ass down the hill, leaving caution somewhere on the trail behind him.

 _What are you gonna do if he's dead down there?_ Sam thinks reflexively, morbidly, as he clambers and trips his way along what he hopes is even close to the trajectory Dean had taken. Thirty feet down, he passes the dark green duffel bag his brother had in hand, caught in the maw of a rotted, overturned stump. It looks ridiculously like a jack-o-lantern is chewing on the canvas. Because Sam has made room in his mind to form metaphors in the middle of emergencies, having pushed care and concern to the back burner, telling himself that Dean deserves it that way. But not now, when it's suddenly real.

 _You gonna summon a crossroads demon?_ his mind taunts. _Call Cas?_

 _Call Crowley?_

 _Yes._

The answer stops Sam in his tracks, has him wrapping fingers around most of the thin trunk of a tree that's happened to appear in the middle of his downward path. It's a thought that's small and ashamed and unexpected, but speaking a truth to Sam that he's forgotten.

No, not forgotten, but simply ignored. And that just might be so much worse.

He shoves away from the tree, rough bark biting into the skin of his palm. It's not far to the bottom of the hill, but at the same time it seems more than far enough. Sam's boots hit level ground and he surveys the surrounding area quickly, catching his breath as he does so.

He finds Dean, however coincidentally, sprawled beneath a willow tree. It stands out amongst the overlapping foliage, tall Oaks whose leaves are already well on their way to changing for the season. The willow spreads like an awesomely bright green canopy over his limp brother.

 _Bury me in willow,_ Sam thinks without meaning to, singing the line in his head.

And then, _No._ Because it turns out he's not ready to bury Dean at all. Not again. Not ever.

As Sam hops over a narrow cut of creek that he can only assume Dean _bounced_ over, he takes the time to count visible limbs, and his brother still has both arms and legs attached, so that's definitely something he's putting in the _win_ column at the moment.

"Hey, Dean. Hey." Sam tosses his bag aside. He has a disgusting amount of experience in these instances, enough to know rather immediately whether or not Dean is hearing him, and determines that the man is far, far beyond such capabilities at the present moment. As such, Sam doesn't bother covering the unanticipated tremor in his voice or the shake in his hands, doesn't try to remove himself from the immediacy of what's in front of him or create some sort of situationally acceptable context for his fear and alarm. To hell with anything else, right now he just wants Dean to be OKAY.

Dean's head rolls along the line of his shoulders like a novelty bobble head doll, and Sam has a hell of a time bringing him to the brink of anything in the ballpark of consciousness. He throws all the rules of first aid out the window and relies instead on blind panic, jostling and shaking and all but screaming in Dean's face, just wanting his brother to give him SOMETHING.

There's a cut along his brow line, and Dean doesn't do things by halves, so instead of a scratch or a scrape it's a genuine fault line cutting across his temple. One that will require steady hands and careful stitching when they get somewhere more indoors. A corresponding trail of thick crimson blood streaking along his face from hairline to jaw turns Sam's stomach and stains his fingers. Dean's right arm is also flopping about against the bed of leaves like a fish stranded on a dock, and that's really going to SUCK in the coming weeks, because that's Dean's gun arm. But what little luck they have was due to run out sooner or later.

For the moment, Sam redirects his attention from the head wound to the floppy limb, grasps Dean's limp wrist and moves steadily up the arm, testing for give in the bones. Doesn't find anything obvious and probes cautiously but deliberately with his fingertips around the bulky and odd-feeling shoulder joint, drawing a high-pitched hum from his semi-conscious brother.

"Okay," Sam relents, and pulls his hand away, carefully folding Dean's arm across his lap in a pathetic attempt to stabilize it for even a moment before he decides on something better.

Dean's eyes open slowly, and it's obvious he's reacting initially to pain and discomfort more than he is any of his other senses, or even Sam's presence. That's the kicker, because this is Dean, or some form of him, and Sam is right in his face.

Dean tries to bow in on himself, tries to take some pressure off of, well, everything, and what color was left in his face falls right the fuck out. Along with lunch.

Sam's reflexes have him twisting his own legs out of the path of destruction and his upper body keeps Dean mostly stable while he creates his own little compost heap in the middle of the woods. "How's the head?" he asked stupidly, directing a decent amount of strength into holding a suddenly limp and excruciatingly heavy brother out of a pile of his own sick.

"Uhhhhh." Dean's right arm flops back to the forest floor as he moves about uncomfortably and he grimaces.

"Yeah, I figured." Sam shifts his own weight to compensate for the pins and needles in his toes, guides Dean back against the trunk of the willow.

Dean doesn't want any part of it, tries to roll to his right side and uses the palm of his hand to assist in the move before he realizes that's a bad, bad idea. He whimpers pathetically, uncharacteristically, and Sam has to draw him forward and prop him against his own shoulder. This way, he's risking copping it right into his lap the next time Dean's stomach says "nuh uh," but his brother can't seem to find a way to settle against the ground that isn't paining him.

"What is it?" Sam asks, business-like.

"M'ass hurts, Sammy." Admitted on a breath, in a drunken, sloppy whisper, and his too-long beard growth scrapes against Sam's neck.

 _He's not taking care of himself, and it's because of you._ Sam chokes out a sad laugh, and thumps a gentle palm against Dean's back. "Okay. Noted." The air temp around them seems to plummet, just as on the trail right before Dean took his tumble, and his eyes narrow as he surveys the surrounding areas. "Noted," Sam says again, quietly, watching as clusters of leaves rustle along a line of trees. He follows the movement until his eyes stop on the form of a young girl across the narrow creek.

He's got so much experience at this point, there's no question as to whether the teenage girl is a spirit, a reflection of a life long-past lived, even if she weren't dressed in clothes from decades ago. There's anger to be felt, eyeballing her, because if the tale of Spook Road is to be believed, she's the reason they're down here. The reason Dean's concussed and bleeding and bitching about his ass hurting. And maybe also the reason his mind is a muddled mess at the moment, almost like she's putting thoughts in his head that he'd rather not be thinking.

"Hey," Sam calls over, annoyed.

With crystal blue eyes and wavy auburn curls, she has the audacity to recoil with a _who me?_ look of childish charm, but Sam's not having it. She's already dead, and Dean is incredibly, and maybe surprisingly, given the acrobatics and the shape of the kids back on the trail, not.

"Hey!" he repeats, louder.

" _You're lost."_

"We weren't," Sam returns, irritated. "Not until my brother had an accident. You wouldn't happen to have had anything to do with that?"

She flickers, reappears beneath a closer tree, poking out from behind the grayish bark. _"I was lost, too."_

"That's great," Sam complains on an exhale of hot breath. He's going to have to sit through the ghostly monologuing while Dean bleeds out onto his shoulder.

Speaking of…Sam shrugs just enough to bring about a groan of discomfort from his otherwise silent brother. "Still with me, Dean?"

Dean's head lolls about and Sam jerks it back into the crook of his shoulder. "Mmmmm."

"Didn't think so." Sam grips a fistful of Dean's jacket and his head whips back to where he last saw the spirit, but she's vacated the cluster of trees. _Oh, for the love of…_ "Hello? Little girl?"

" _No one would find me."_

The voice tinkles like glass from somewhere behind him, and Sam takes a breath and lets the spook count her lucky stars that he can't currently reach the shotgun with the salt rounds. "Find you?" he asks. "You want me to find you?"

" _No one will find me."_

He'd rather try to find a cell tower than some moody little adolescent's forgotten and rotting corpse, but it's not like the spooks ever stop to ask their preference. Sam chews his lip and twists as much as he dares to look about. They'd lost sunlight pretty rapidly, and with it, whatever warmth the day has held. A chill runs through him. She's nearby, that much is obvious, but what the hell is he supposed to with Dean?

"Go get 'er, Sammy."

Sam's hands jump up to pull a too-cool Dean away from where he's been propped against his chest, finds bright green eyes blinking blood-thickened lashes at him.

For the moment at least, the new, stoic, mostly silent Dean of the past few long months is gone. Like the fall, the knock on the head, or the spirit…like something has pushed a reset switch, returned Dean to his factory settings. This isn't distant and brooding and secretive Dean. This isn't the Dean that has no reaction to Bobby's home being reduced to a pile of beam and ash and boxed remnants.

He's still drawn, still pale, and the beard is too much, but it's the Dean that Sam's grown up with that's staring at him, and yeah, that Dean made some selfish, boneheaded, jackassed calls, but he also has canyons inside filled to the brim with love that he doesn't know what to do with. That's the Dean that Sam sees right now, and that's the Dean that Sam has to get back to the road and the waiting Impala. Maybe he's had his reset switch flipped, too.

"Y'heard all that, huh?" Sam, keeping up the façade, inquires with a professional distance saved for victims of supernatural happenstance, and hates himself for it even as the words are falling blandly from his tongue.

Dean either nods, or just can't find it within himself to hold his head up any longer. He exhales, long and labored. "She's not gon' let you go."

"She's gonna let us BOTH go," Sam corrects, and knows with a heart-wrenching ferocity that Dean would lie down and die on this very pile of leaves if it meant Sam would get back to the car. His hand tightens around Dean's neck, and he hopes the pathetically small motion conveys everything he owes his brother with words but pride won't allow to escape his lips. "I'm gonna take care of this shoulder, and then I'm gonna go get her."

Dean screws his face up, anticipating exactly how much he's not going to like being any part of that. Sam doesn't figure giving him a count is actually going to count for much at this point, so he just gets a good grip, lines it up, and shoves the joint back.

Dean shouts to wake the dead, if she wasn't already hovering somewhere nearby.

"Okay," Sam says, leaning back far enough to undo his belt buckle and slide the strip of leather from around his waist. It's not perfect, but it's the best impromptu sling he's going to manage at the moment.

Sam gets Dean's arm pretty well strapped to his chest and doesn't so much guide his brother to lie on his left side any more than he lets him collapse into whatever position is going to hurt him the least. The wounded side of his head is now kissing the dirty ground, and Sam takes the time to locate and drag Dean's bandana from his jacket pocket, wads it up and shoves it like a small, ineffective pillow beneath his head.

"Be careful, S'mmy," Dean mumbles as his eyes fall closed, because he has once driving force, and it is Sam.

"Yeah," Sam returns, and pushes himself to his feet, walks steadily to the spot where he last saw the spirit, some thirty yards away. He pauses only long enough to stoop and collect the bag he'd abandoned on his way to Dean, noting that it's a good thing they packed for a ghost hunt.

He stands beneath the tree and stomps an impatient foot, hefts the strap of the bag. "You gonna give me a hint here, or what?" he implores loudly.

A strange, warm breeze brushes Sam's cheek and ruffles his hair, and he turns his head into the wind, sighs as he finds the girl another twenty or so yards away, farther into the wood. Farther from Dean.

" _This is where I got lost,"_ she croons, as sweet as honey and as loud as if she were whispering it directly into his ear.

Sam crosses to the spot without hesitation and drops to his knees. _Recon trip,_ Dean had said, and thus had they packed for. So guns and salt and flashlights and snacks, but no shovel. Thankfully, though, Sam spots a half-empty jug of lighter fluid rolling around the bottom of the bag, flattening a two-day old peanut butter and banana sandwich in a plastic baggy. A sandwich he almost hopes he has to shove down Dean's throat later for the strength needed to make the trek back up to the road.

Sam hefts the flashlight and tests the ground, loosens up some dirt, and then he digs at a frantic pace brought about only from the knowledge that Dean is propped up across the way with some degree of head trauma and what are sure to be several yet-to-be discovered injuries. Including, apparently, his ass. There's blood spotting a lot of the foliage around where he lays, and the sun has long since abandoned then. If Sam is cold, then Dean is freezing.

He loses most of the fingernail on his right pointer in the search and all of his digits are numb but he finally unearths a grimy gray skull, doubles his effort and reveals the rest of her skeleton.

" _You found me."_

Sam's head whips up, and his heart doesn't know quite what to do with the level of peace and contentment in the spirit's eyes. He swallows. "This might hurt."

She smiles. _"It won't."_

He uses the head of the flashlight to carve out a trench around the pile of bones, because he's not looking to start any full-fledged forest fires while they're still stuck out here. Sam douses the bones and lights a match, tosses it and stares in natural and expected entrancement as the spark catches and the flames grow. Nearly a full minutes passes before he thinks to look for the girl.

She's glowing, and Sam knows what comes next, and the serene look on her face lets him know that so does she. She levels a stern gaze at him. _"He'll find you, too."_

Sam doesn't, can't, won't respond to that. He watches her wink and flame out of this realm, only to be caught in the vague in-between of Hell and Heaven's locked gates. It's not perfect, but it's not here, so they stand a chance of stumbling back onto the trail they'd fallen off of.

Dean is never stronger than when he's waiting for Sam, so it comes as no surprise that he's blinking saucer-wide eyes up at Sam as he approaches, whites visible in a random but fortunate patch of rising moonlight. "Wha' she wan', Sammy?"

He'd think Dean were drunk if he didn't know differently, as good as he's gotten as translating drunk Dean into passable English. Sam frowns. "She just wanted someone to find her. The missing hikers, the deaths…most people didn't survive the fall, and the ones that did…well, they didn't know enough to listen to what she was trying to say. They just ran away from her."

Dean shifts uncomfortably against the rough bark at his back. "Well, at least I know it was'a frien'ly ghost broke m'ass. Feels all better now."

Sam's eyes are still screwed up, still studying the spot where the girl had just been, her soft-spoken words still writhing unbidden and unwelcome in his mind. "Yeah, I bet. Let's get you up."

Dean burrows into the ground and makes an immature grunt of disagreement, like he wants to tell Sam, _thank you for the thought, but I'm perfectly comfy here, sir._

So Sam removes the illusion of choice, crouches to grip jacket and belt loop and hauls Dean most of the way upright before his brother seems to realize it's happening. His left hand gropes at Sam's shoulder to stabilize his weight, and his boots do a mad dance across the ground until they dig in enough to get and keep him standing.

There's no telling how long it will take to rediscover the trail or road, but there's also no need to inventory the supplies they have between them. Sam knows exactly what's in his bag and exactly what's in Dean's, and if Dean were capable of such strategic thought at the moment, it would be vice versa, too. The Winchester boys are lacking the capacity for sharing and caring but not for survival training. _If there's even a chance you're going to get pantsed, you make sure you're at least wearing clean underwear._ Dear old Dad, still supplementing his education with lessons from the grave.

"We'd better not get stuck out here," Dean grumbles with surprising clarity and like he's reading Sam's thoughts, predictably turning the pain of the horizontal to vertical transition into a complaint laced with an accusation.

Sam shifts Dean in the direction of the hill without a count, pays for it with Dean suddenly fisting a handful of the meat of Sam's side. "Yeah, I already had that thought," he says in an attempt to keep his brother from focusing on the pain of moving. "I know how you pack that duffel and there's no way I'm eating Twizzlers for dinner."

Dean grimaces and steps forward, redistributes his weight into a dozen new avenues of agony. "Like I'm sharin.' I know you've got your gross-ass sandwiches in that bag."

Sam hefts Dean's left arm over his shoulder, lets him curl the right one into his chest. "I still stand by them."

"I'd stand by a cold beer."

"I don't think that's going to mix well with the handful of painkillers I'm cramming down your gullet the second we make the car." And why THOSE don't ever seem to make it into one of the bags, Sam will never know.

It's a long, arduous journey up the incline, which doesn't suddenly seem nearly as steep as it did when Dean did a tumbling routine down it. They pause more than a dozen times, once to retrieve the fallen bag but the rest are for Dean's benefit. Sam is pretty much dragging him along at this point, and they're both blowing like steam engines from the exertion. Dean's instincts seem to take over, have him twisting and pulling Sam to the left as soon as they level out from the slope. In ten long minutes, headlights are visible in the distance, and Sam is stumped.

Dean groans as he straightens and his eyes brighten. "Told you I knew where the road was."

Sam swallows roughly. "Yeah, you did."

So maybe it turns out the little ghost girl was right, and Dean wasn't the one who was lost. Maybe it was Sam, all along.

* * *

As much as he doesn't want to, Sam trusts his brother to know his own limits, and when Dean tells him he doesn't need a hospital, he rustles up just enough strength and stability behind the words that Sam believes him.

Sam's once again thrown back in time as they pass the park perimeter, as the DJ introduces the next tune in a silky slide of a voice, as a railroad spike is driven through his heart.

 _Dean reaches over Sam and pops open the glove box, pulls out a brand new – relatively speaking – cassette, and pushes the tape into the deck. He lazily rolls the volume dial, allowing the song to fill the cabin of the Impala._

 _Sam can't keep the whine out of his voice. "I thought we had an understanding, ever since the mystery spot. No Asia."_

" _Just…shut up, Sammy. It's not for you, or for me. It's for Bobby."_

 _Sam leans his head back as he listens. "The willow tree."_

" _Yeah."_

Next to him, Dean reacts to the song, as well, recognition bringing his head to roll against the cool glass of the window and disrupt all of the careful packaging Sam had put in place for the ride back to the motel. "This song's for Bobby," he mumbles drowsily.

"I know," Sam says, choking on his own words. "I remember."

"I miss 'im."

"I do, too."

This isn't much, but it's DEAN. And until now, until the fall and the ghost on whom he's going to blame the change in his mental state, Sam hadn't realized just how much he's been missing his brother. Even when he's been sitting right next to him.

The pride monster he unwittingly inherited from John Winchester ensures he won't ever tell him so.

* * *

 _The prompts were: Sam and Dean, two genres, Bobby's place, the song "Bury Me in Willow" by Asia, Twizzlers and peanut butter and banana sandwiches._


	3. Washington: We Look Good in Flannel

_Summary: S2 post-Nightshifter. Dean knows his baby pretty well, but he's never been up her skirt quite like this before. Banter, ghosts, and Dean in the trunk._

* * *

 **Atlas**

 _Washington: We Look Good in Flannel_

* * *

"Does it EVER stop raining here?" Dean grumbles, fist pressed against the cool glass of the motel window. _Here_ is Washington, a little town called Prosser, to satisfy specifics, but he's spent enough time in the state to know any particular locale is all but irrelevant this time of year.

He's grumpy from being on lockdown at the orders of the unmovable Warden Sammy, cooped up in this tiny, smelly room for hours on end, no doubt about that, but Sam doesn't have to exacerbate the situation by throwing his own freedom in Dean's face like he is. The way he's coming and going whenever he pleases, a chipper stroll down the sidewalk for a Coke from the vending machines when there is perfectly good beer right here in the cooler, or taking the car into town for an Italian beef sub from some AWESOME little hole-in-the-wall deli, bypassing the stack of take-out menus on the counter.

Okay, the sandwich had been for Dean, and it had actually been really decent of Sam to go out and get it for him, but still.

STILL.

"No."

Dean turns away from tracking raindrops down the windowpane and makes a face at where Sam sits at the small, short table across the room, taking distracted bites from some kind of hippie vegan veggie wrap monstrosity while staring at his computer. "Just, no?"

Sam cocks on eyebrow as he finally draws his gaze away the screen of his laptop and swallows a mouthful of rabbit food dressed up like a sandwich. "No…sir?"

"All right, smartass." Dean rolls his eyes and moves back to the beer he'd left on the counter. "Why don't you just tell me what you found out from the PD?"

"Well," Sam starts, clearing his throat. "This was the third accident in the past two weeks." He shuffles through papers in a manila folder and tosses a few police reports and photo printouts onto the table. "And in all three cases, tire treads run from the bottom of the hill all the way to the overhang of the canal. Then, you know, splash."

"You have such a way with words, Sammy." Dean drags the papers up from the table to study them. "What, all these sons of bitches drove themselves over the edge?"

"Yeah. We know how Dad always felt about coincidences, and two of the drivers had passengers with them at the time. But that's the theory the police are working with." Sam leans back in his chair, pushes the rolled sleeves of his starchy dress shirt farther up his forearms.

Dean raises his eyebrows and his beer. "And what theory are WE working with?"

"Well," Sam pauses to sip from the straw of his to-go soda, but Dean knows the motion for the stalling tactic it really is. "WE think there might be some reason to check out the local lore of this hill."

"What's so special about the hill?"

Another sip. "According to local legend, it's called Gravity Hill."

"You mean where you put your car in neutral and it mysteriously moves uphill?" Dean drops the stack of pages to the table with a _smack._ "Sam, come on. Every small town in AMERICA has a gravity hill legend. Hell, we could probably do nothing but drive around debunking gravity hill myths and keep busy for a full year, at least."

Sam lifts his shoulders. "This one's story isn't science. It's ghosts, who supposedly, you know, push your car up the hill." He supplements his words with an unnecessary shoving motion.

Dean takes a beat. "And into the canal?"

"Funny enough, that didn't seem to make it into the legend. Which is probably why so many people still go out to the hill to try it."

"Okay," Dean relents, despite thinking all of those people might just be MORONS. "Ghosts of who, then?"

"Whom," Sam mutters under his breath just loud enough to be sure Dean hears him, in trademark fashion. "Of children. Two girls who were supposedly murdered nearby. Among other things."

"Murdered, among other things?" Dean confirms incredulously. He studies him empty beer bottle and shakes his head, disgusted. "I need another drink just thinking about that. And maybe a shower."

"Yeah."

Dean pops open the lid of the green cooler on the countertop and drags a pair of frosty bottles from the loosely packed ice. "And how many have bit it here again?"

Sam screws up his face at what he's surely deemed to be a tactless inquiry. Dean bites his lip, keeps from saying that maybe Sam should have picked him up some more tact to go with dinner. "Five."

Dean nods and passes one of the beers to his brother. "S'not gonna be any more than that. We know damn well what to do with ghosts. It's shake and bake time, bro."

"You know how this works, Dean," Sam says, wiping mayo from his fingers onto a napkin and sandwiching his words around an impatient sigh. "Your face was just all over the news, in connection with robbery and, oh yeah, murder. You can't go traipsing around town, and I really shouldn't have to explain this to you like you're four."

Dean crosses his arms stubbornly. "Well, you're not going out after any ghosts without me. That's for damn sure."

"Dean…"

He raises his hands. "You wouldn't let me come with to the police station. I get that, it was stupid to try. But I have to be able to check out some deserted road. At night." Dean raises his eyebrows, ducks his head. "Right?"

Sam sighs again, and Dean knows that he's won this one. He rewards himself with a pull from his beer, and tries to not dampen the victory, or the moment, with TOO big a shit-eating grin. And truth be told, he's pretty stoked to have gotten out of the suit gig this time. Looks ridiculous in the stiff-ass itchy things.

A fat drop plops onto Dean's forehead and runs in a cold, slimy line down the side of his nose. He raises his eyes to glare at the drippy water spot staining the ceiling over his head. "Look, Sam," he gripes, wiping the dribble from his face. "It's even raining inside now."

* * *

It's dark, and it's cold, and it's BORING. And – _cue shock and awe_ – raining. Dean drums his fingers on his thigh, releases a long, low whistle that puffs a cloud in the chilly air in front of his face, surveying their surroundings.

"Dean."

"Hmm?"

"You're driving me crazy."

"I'm not driving you anywhere, actually." Dean throws a pointed gesture at the keys dangling cold and useless from the ignition. "I am literally just sitting here."

"Dean."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean sighs, rolls his neck on his shoulders. He's got DAYS' worth of pent-up energy needing an outlet, and it's not going to be found sitting in the car. What he needs to do if find something that would benefit from a solid punch in the face. "We're really just gonna SIT here and wait to see if something weird happens? And for the record, I don't like using her as bait." He lays a gentle palm on the Impala's dashboard for emphasis.

Next to him, Sam rolls his eyes and nods curtly, squinting into the darkness around them. "Noted. Just think of it as a stakeout."

"I hate stakeouts."

"I know."

"I like steaks."

Sam sighs, one of the pissy annoyed ones.

Dean considers it encouragement, pulls his lips around a grin. "When this doesn't pan out, how about we go get some food?"

"Just…keep an eye out, okay?"

"For a pair of ghost girls who are gonna put their dead, grubby little hands all over my baby?"

"You're pathological," Sam says, shaking his head. He turns to stare out the window at his side.

Dean throws an impatient gaze out of his own window. "This is supposed to be a gravity hill, right? I mean, that's what it's called?"

"That's what it's called."

"Then isn't the car supposed to be moving or something?"

Sam throws his head back against the seat, frustrated. "For the love of God, Dean, I don't – "

Right on cue, the Impala lurches forward as though struck from behind. Not forcefully, but enough for it be obvious that, hey, they're moving here.

"Whoa." Dean jerks his hands away from the steering wheel and pulls his feet back from the pedals. Even so, his girl continues her slow crawl forward. "Okay. The car's moving."

"Yeah."

"No, Sam, my CAR is moving. And I'm not…is this HURTING her?"

Sam doesn't answer right away, and that's more than enough time for Dean to think, _screw this_ , and jam his boot firmly on the gas pedal, steering the Impala away from her slow ascent of the hill.

Without warning or reason, Sam's bony-ass elbow connects with Dean's temple. There's enough force behind the jab, it sends the side of his head straight into the window. And it might be the fourth of July, because suddenly there are fireworks, everywhere.

"Son of a bitch," Dean growls. He's dazed but not completely out, with hands suddenly feeling like thirty pound weights as they drop from the steering wheel to thump clumsily to the edge of the bench. His boot slips off the gas pedal.

Sammy's been working on his hand-eye coordination, been running drills or exercises or some shit. Because the kid is nine feet tall, gangly and gawky and he trips over curbs but he knocks Dean aside and takes control of the big car at lightning speed. Sam jerks the Impala to the berm at an angle that sloshes Dean's brain inside his skull and throws him against his brother's shoulder, then he jams his foot on the brake.

"The hell, Sammy," Dean mumbles sloppily, pawing drunkenly at Sam's arm in an attempt to straighten. Vision murky and swimming, he squints at a pair of Sammy-twins teetering on the bench next to him. _Nope_. He bumps into the steering wheel with his side and then the door at his back and the one that's become clear is that HE'S the one teetering here, not Sam.

Sam is straight-backed, knees and those WMD elbows bent at sharp, rigid angles. He's staring at Dean with cloudy, unfocused eyes, and he doesn't respond.

Feeling woozy, Dean grips the leather-wrapped wheel for some semblance of balance and blinks dumbly back at Sam, willing himself not to puke all over his baby.

Sam raises his arms jerkily and reaches toward him, and Dean stupidly feels his uncooperative body leaning into his brother.

Then Sam grabs both sides of Dean's head and throws it back into the window with a _crack_ that will be the last thing he hears for a little while.

* * *

He comes to rolling around in a cramped, hot space, with his knees jammed up somewhere around his throat and something poking him very uncomfortably in the ass.

 _Trunk._

Dean knows his baby pretty well, but he's never been up her skirt quite like this before. He lifts his head without really thinking, the motion cut short as his forehead slams into the hard and clangy lid.

"Sonuvabitch," he mutters, letting his head fall back. And that feels just…awesome.

Dean's hand reflexively moves to probe the spot but it turns out he can't, because his wrists are strapped together somewhere around his middle.

"Son of a bitch," he spits again.

Dean experimentally tugs his hands away from each other, finding no give whatsoever. He quickly, however fuzzily, runs through a mental inventory of the trunk's contents, and he can't see to be sure but decides on duct tape. Not great, but could sure as shit be worse. Could've been the cable ties. He shifts his feet, or tries to, finds them in much the same predicament.

"Sammy!" he calls, wincing from the action and the words bouncing back from the metal. The car jerks to a stop, throwing him into the wall of the trunk.

Dean's relief is short-lived, as she presses forward, upward, and he's rolled back into the opposite wall. The engine rumbles as she moves, so maybe the whole _pushed by ghosts_ legend is more metaphorical than literal.

Then a chill washes over him, and Dean's ears perk to the high-pitched, excited shriek of a child's laughter, the thump of tiny fists on the metal above his head.

Okay, so maybe it's a bit of both.

"Sam!" Dean tries again, pounding his bound hands against the lid, the _thump_ echoing in the cramped space and reverberating mercilessly through his aching head. He strikes the metal with the back of a hand, probably smearing the devil's trap painted there. Gonna have to redraw the damn thing when he gets outta here.

 _Why the fuck am I worryin' about the devil's trap when Sammy's ghost-possessed ass is about to put my sorry self in the river?_

"Sammy! I swear to God, Sam, if you put me and my baby into that canal, we are gonna haunt your ass SO hard!"

Dean's thrashing about to the point he never realizes the car has come to a stop. The lid of the trunk is suddenly jerked open, revealing a pale, somewhat blurry Sam staring down at him with the dark, unseeing eyes he recognizes as someone having little to no control over what they're doing. He reaches for Dean, slams a strip of duct tape over his lips instead of helping him to his feet.

Dean bucks and shouts and curses at his brother, none of it intelligible behind the muffle of the tape. Unaffected, Sam stiffly, mechanically slams the trunk closed on him.

Exactly enough time passes for his brother to make it back to the driver's seat, then the Impala lurches forward once more, and Dean's ears perk again to the tinny cackle of a gleeful little girls at the verge of making some new ghost friends.

 _Over my dead body_ , Dean thinks. _Or…wait. Scratch that._

Ingrained, developed senses tell Dean they are still crawling steadily upward, so he's got a little bit of time to think of something here. Some way to save his sorry ass, and Sammy's, too. Then the upward trajectory of the Impala levels out, and he knows they've ventured off of the narrow road, and Sam's pulled them into the bramble and probably got them pointed right at the edge of the canal.

 _Well. Fuck._

Then the engine shuts off, and he thinks he can hear the familiar, however faraway, _creak_ of the driver's side door being flung open. The trunk opens over his head again with a sudden jerk.

"Dean," Sam says breathlessly, leaning on the lid. He's white, with very wide eyes. "Hey, sorry, hey, I've got this now. It's me."

 _Son of a bitch. Cuttin' it a little close, huh, Wonder Boy?_ Dean drops his head back, doesn't plan to look this particular gift horse in the mouth, even if it should be concerning that Sammy could so easily figuratively and literally take the wheel back from a ghost controlling his actions. He grunts a nonspecific sound against the tape covering his lips and raises his eyebrows expectantly.

Sam blinks and raises his hands. "Okay, okay, just…this is probably gonna hurt."

Dean rolls his eyes, steels himself as Sam works a fingernail under the edge of the tape stuck to his cheek.

"Mmmmmm," he hums as Sam rips the tape away in one smooth motion. "Son of a bitch. I still got lips?"

Sam's eyebrows pull together and he swallows. "Yeah. Still there."

Dean goes to check for himself, sighs and extends his taped-together wrists toward his brother. "If you don't mind?"

"Uh, yeah, sure. Of course. Sorry," Sam stumbles all over himself in his haste to withdraw his switchblade and cut Dean free.

As soon as the tape is removed from his wrists Dean yanks the knife away from Sam and goes to work sawing his own ankles free.

Sam takes a step back like he's expecting a swing, but his hands hover in a characteristic way, unsure of what to do. "You're bleeding."

"Ya think?" Dean tosses the knife to the floor of the trunk and his fingers cautiously probe the tender spot over his left ear. Feels like it's vomiting lava rather than blood. "Damn it, Sam."

A wave of guilt crashes into Sam's features, and he looks pathetically like a giant child who's just been scolded. "You know I would never have…"

"Relax, Sammy," Dean sighs as he drags himself out of the ass-end of the car. "I'm fine. You can unclench."

"Yeah. Right."

Dean stands with a groan and scratches at the sticky residue left behind on his cheek, fingers tripping over a thin line of drying blood from the cut on his head. He raises his eyes to his brother. "So, you wanna take care of these ghosts, or you wanna stand here in the rain and stare at each other a little longer?"

"Ghosts," Sam says with a tight nod, eyes shifting to the old barn in the distance, where the girls supposedly died and were buried. "Definitely."

"Great." Dean swallows against a wave of nausea as the trees do a little dance behind Sam. He turns to yanks a bag from the trunk and a bottle of lighter fluid falls out of the opened zipper and thumps to the hard, carpeted floor of the trunk. He cocks his head. "So that's what was jammed in my ass. Good to know."

* * *

 _Thought it was about time to throw something a bit lighter into the mix, amidst all of the dark and angst of the previous shorts._


	4. North Dakota: Roughrider

_Author Notes: Been a while since I updated this collection, so here is the next installment._

 _Summary: Post 8.17 Goodbye Stranger. So, yeah, Dean was in pretty bad shape BEFORE the Impala spluttered, bucked, and then altogether died, tires kicking up dust as Sam coaxed her to the side of the road and hood expelling a rush of smoke that obscured any spring scenery lying beyond the wide windshield. H/C. Warning for language._

* * *

 **Atlas**

 _North Dakota:_ _Roughrider_

* * *

 _You stupid, stupid ASS._

In the moment, Sam's not even sure whether he's cursing himself, his big brother, or the goddamned car, because each of them more than deserves it.

He hadn't questioned Dean, not even once, as he pressed one more bottle of water into Sam's hand. And one more after that. Every time Sam smacked dry lips or barked a raspy cough or, okay, _one time_ bitched about the baking heat and how thirsty he was, Dean was right there with more water for him.

He's been feeling a bit unwell since completing the first trial, in a frighteningly unfamiliar way, and he can't argue that whatever's going with him has put a dent in his awareness. But Sam should have been counting the bottles, should have known better, thattheir supplies couldn't possibly have accounted for that much water for each of them. They're a day's drive out of the bunker, true, but it was a ghost hunt, for cryin' out loud, an urban legend like the good old days. In and out; salt and burn and back before dinnertime the next day.

There's no way they would have thought to prepare for a heat wave in late March in North Dakota.

They'd driven all night and caught sight of the spirit right at dawn just as the legend warned. Wandering weakly along the side of the road, leading travelers away to assist with his broken-down wagon. Because there are still good people in this world, good people who didn't question the prairie-style attire or the fact the man was struggling with a broken-down _wagon_ , and as a reward for their generosity and help were never seen or heard from again.

The spirit was leading these poor souls, in fact, not to the spot where his wagon had broken down all those years ago, but to where he'd finally succumbed to the elements after wandering directionless in the oppressive summer heat for days.

Sam winces, considers his dry, scratchy throat. Might not have even been days. One might've done it out here.

They bought some time with the rock salt rounds, the hunt for the spirit's remains beginning as dawn cut away to morning, and continuing as morning rapidly became an unexpectedly and increasingly uncomfortable afternoon.

"Damn," was Dean's sole comment regarding the surprisingly hot spring day as he dragged a wrist across his sweaty forehead, and everything after that was about Sam.

Every time he'd so much as winced under the glare of the overhead sun, Dean had dug into the duffel at his feet and shoved a bottle of water in his face. Same old Dean, giving his little brother what was meant for himself. All those nights as kids he'd gone without dinner so that Sam could eat, now going thirsty so Sam can drink.

So he'd been just a hair slower than normal, in this seasonally early but no less dangerous dry, dusty heat of the Badlands, and neither of them was prepared for the son of a bitch to have a knife on him. Let alone one that was _solid_ , and capable of slicing flesh when Sam's swinging arm went straight through the bastard. Guess they know what happened to all of those Good Samaritans.

He popped up between them too close to shoot with the rock salt, and Dean caught the blade across the thigh, in the motion of hopping out of the way of the attack. But not quite quickly enough.

Sam had to do a lot of the work after that, but he wasn't worried about the digging and burning, he was worried about the way his shaky, bleeding brother was bobbing and weaving out of the path of every incoming kill strike, leaving swirls and sprays of blood across the ground as he hopped around at the mercy of one good leg and his waning ability to aim the salt gun.

Malevolent spirit properly dispatched, Sam moved swiftly onto the next issue. He deemed the injury to Dean's leg not great but not immediately life-threatening, and got the wound tied off with a bandana. He then dug into the bag for some water for his brother, and as his fingers found only empty plastic bottles, he realized what Dean had been doing. Needless to say, he'd been a little less than gentle as he hauled Dean to his feet and started dragging him back to the road.

They'd followed the spirit deep into the park, and despite the tight wrapping Dean left a trail of a blood a blind man could follow, a path of thick crimson drips and spots atop silt and sand covering the entire distance to where the car had been awaiting their return, with no relief for their persistent thirst to be found in the trunk.

And that had been nearly an hour ago.

So, yeah, Dean was in pretty bad shape BEFORE the Impala spluttered, bucked, and then altogether died, tires kicking up dust as Sam coaxed her to the side of the road and hood expelling a rush of smoke that obscured any spring scenery lying beyond the wide windshield.

Sam sits for a moment, jaw clenched to the point of pain as he takes stock of their situation. The car ticks and cools a cruel pattern, mocking him with its immobility. After a mere moment of such stillness, sweat gathers at his hairline and pools between his shoulder blades, even with the windows rolled down. It's certainly not going to get any cooler, not for hours. Not without some sort of divine intervention, and they've been striking out left and right on that front for a few years now.

 _Ass,_ Sam berates himself again, having finally settled on a target for his frustration and fury. He hurries to pull his cell phone from his pocket, confirms once more that they've drawn the short straw as far the area's spotty cell reception is concerned.

Dean, sprawled white-faced and bloody across the backseat, digs an elbow into the leather bench and pulls himself up with a disproportionate amount of effort. "We there already?"

 _There_ could be the bunker or the hospital or a goddamned ice cream parlor, for all Sam knows. Dean had stopped making sense sometime during that hellacious trek back, around the time he'd stumbled to a complete stop, eyes intently focused on something off in the distance only he could see, his pale, cracked lips moving in an incoherent babble. It had been a mostly gentle tug on the arm that propelled his brother forward once more.

Sam's short in his response, not knowing how much it really counts for. "No." They're not even a little bit _almost there_. Not unless they were looking to wind up in Mount Totally Screwed, population: two Winchesters.

"What happened?"

"Car died."

"You're not so much with the words today, Sammy."

Sam doesn't need to fling his eyes to the rearview to hear the dopey smile packaging the words. They're currently operating in a territory where defense mechanisms tend to take over, and Dean hasn't quite sounded like himself since he first hit the ground in a cloud of blood and dust. "Yeah, well."

Dean hauls himself fully upright with a groan and white fingers putting dents in the seatback. "I'll take a look." He's extremely pale, and the creases cut at the corners of his eyes are deep, exacerbated by the dust that had settled and betraying the headache plaguing him, from heat and dehydration.

"No," Sam says sharply, pinning Dean in place with a glare and a firm hand thrown back onto his shoulder. His eyes roll over the navy blue bandana he'd tied off around his brother's leg, blood seeping through and spotting the tight wrappings. _Not good._ "Just stay put, okay? Open another window."

Dean prepares to launch some argument his way, huffs and rolls his eyes in an exhausted, sickly manner, but this isn't something that's remotely up for debate, so Sam throws open his door before Dean can properly splutter a response. It's impossible to discern a change in air temperature outside of the stuffy confines of the car. Hot is hot, and this is ridiculously, stupidly _hot._

The smoke pouring from the innards of the Impala is like a furnace blast in Sam's already hot, tight face, and choking, as he flings the hood up. The _creak_ that accompanies the motion is just as pronounced as the unoiled doors, an old girl complaining her age, and he really should be gentler with the car.

"Take it easy, Gigantor!" Dean protests with nothing less than the expected amount of irritation from his prone spot on the seat, just to punctuate that thought.

Sam rolls his eyes, then stares a moment at the mess of plastic and chrome laid out before him. Some of the parts seem familiar, and some dauntingly, frustratingly _not._ He licks his dry lips and peeks around the raised hood. "Dean," he says loudly, resignation weighing down his words. "I don't know what I'm looking for here."

An elbow appears on the window ledge, a hiss of skin contacting sun-heated metal as Dean pulls the arm back inside. "She just overheated."

"How do you know?"

At that one, Dean pops his entire head out of the car and glares with such ferocity, you wouldn't think he was fighting the effects of blood loss, dehydration, and the sweltering elements.

There was once a time Dean had tried to teach Sam everything there was to know about this car and its inner workings, and Dad a decade before that. He really should have paid more attention to some of those lessons. He blinks dumbly. "Okay. So, it overheated." _Now what?_

"You need to check the coolant line. Radiator. And she needs…" Dean licks his lips, grimaces. "Needs water." His head droops slowly to rest on his outstretched arm, but his shoulders continue to hitch with the rapid breaths of the miserably conscious.

Sam thumps a frustrated fist against the raised hood. "We don't HAVE any fucking water, Dean!"

Dean's head snaps up and he levels a look at Sam that says _fuck you_ and Sam deserves it at least as much as Dean didn't deserve that little outburst.

"Radiator?" Sam asks with a dry swallow, anxious fingers scratching nail against the hot metal of the car.

"Radiator," Dean confirms wearily, eyes shifting to the side and darting about suspiciously. Sam would prefer not to entertain what things his apparent heat exhaustion might have appearing to him there among the budding trees. His eyes refocus, and he shakes his head weakly. "Check the hose for a leak."

"Got it." Sam draws back under the hood, dusts off his admittedly abysmal automotive know-how and locates the appropriate hose. Sure enough, there's a clean, almost surgical slice in the line.

"Looks cut," he calls out to his brother. He needs to keep the man talking, needs that reassurance of coherence, or at least consciousness, or he's really going to lose his shit out here. He gives Dean the time it takes to drag his phone out once more and reconfirm they're still as good as fucked without cell reception to reply. "Dean?"

The answer is slow and muddied when it comes. "Yeah. Animal?" He's fading, and fast.

 _Dammit._ "WHAT animal?" Sam exclaims, curving a palm once more around the seemingly molten metal of the Impala's hood. He can't fight gut instinct, and the thought that this has to be one last _fuck you_ from their ghostly wanderer. Stranding travelers the same way he himself had been stranded. "Dean?"

Any measure of extended silence is concerning under their present circumstances, and Sam's heart trips an off-kilter beat as he rushes around the wide nose of the car to put his wounded brother back in his eye line.

Dean is hunched over on the backseat, flimsy fingers fumbling at the knot of the bandana staunching his own blood flow, and Sam recoils, disgusted by the thought before he has the presence of mind to lean through the open window and smack Dean's hand away.

"Y'need to tie it off," he protests, blinking heavily up at Sam, like SAM is the one not making any sense.

"We'll find something else," Sam says, shaking his head with still-wide eyes.

"C'mon, Sammy. S'barely bleedin' now."

"That's because you're dehydrated," Sam snaps before can properly soften his reaction. _You dumbass._ "You KNOW this, Dean."

Dean's lip curls, though it's not clear whether it's due to insult or injury. "Check the trunk."

Injury it is, then, as he glosses right over the attitude Sam's just lobbed his way. A tickle builds in Sam's throat, or maybe from somewhere deeper and more dangerous, and he turns to loose a quick succession of quiet coughs into his shoulder. It serves only to stoke the burning pain in his chest, the fire that's been there since he read that spell required for the trial.

Sam takes the time to slide a pair of fingers beneath his brother's stubbled jaw to confirm hit skin and a rapid pulse. He pulls away from the window and jerks open the driver's door, dragging the keys from the ignition and moving quickly to the rear of the car to hunt for something more suitable than a bandana soaked through with Dean's blood to seal off of the cut in the hose. He makes sure to lift the trunk with a bit more care than he'd shown the hood.

"Should be…" Dean's voice is low and raspy, straining to be heard. "Should be some duct tape."

"Duct tape's not gonna hold longer than ten minutes, Dean." Sam may not know a lot about cars, but that just seems like common sense.

"Loosen the cap. Let out…some of the pressure."

The pause, the struggle, isn't lost on Sam. It's just that there isn't a whole hell of a lot he can do about here in the middle of nowhere. He spots the half-shot roll peeking from beneath a jumble of towels streaked with mud and blood that have been stiffening and ripening in the trunk since they stumbled onto the bunker. _Duct tape it is._

Sam wastes no time in sending a generous strip around the hose, sealing the cut in the hose, and loosens the radiator cap to the first notch just as instructed. He considered wrapping the remaining tape around the gash in Dean's leg, but the bleeding seems to have mercifully stopped. Just in the nick of time, too, because Sam's about full-up on emergency situations for one day.

Generously dripping sweat, he drops back behind the wheel and twists the keys in the ignition, a bit surprised when the engine turns over with only a little protestation. The Impala starts, but she doesn't sound happy about it.

"Lookit you," Dean says with a wide grin as Sam shoots an exploratory look back over the bench. "Earned your Boy Scout badge in classic car repair."

Actually, he'd earned that one a few years back, in a situation not all that different from where they now stand. "This isn't a repair, Dean. This is a strip of duct tape and a prayer."

Dean makes a noise in his throat that is only mostly intentional as he slumps against the seat, seeming to melt against the slick leather. Sweat beads at his hairline and his face is ghostly pale. "Well, I'm bettin' more on the duct tape."

Sam ignores the comment, drops the car purposefully into 'drive.' "First stop, all the water in North Dakota. Then – "

"Home."

There's something about his brother referring to this accidental refuge they've discovered as _home_ that sends an old, rusty knife through Sam's gut. "Dean – "

Dean is persistent in his plea, voice deceptively strong as his eyes slide closed. "We'll be okay, Sammy, me and m'baby. Let's just go home."

Sam sits, gripping the steering wheel in tight, sweaty palms, studying his brother in the rearview. Dean's been through the wringer in every imaginable way, and he knows better than to play the tough guy when he's heading south in an irreparable way. Sam swallows. "Yeah." It's not a hesitant foot that he lays on the gas pedal.

* * *

Dean's eyes fly open before they get that stop for water, so it's with a hell of a lot of salt that Sam takes his panicked inquiry of, "You see that?"

Sam eases off the gas and cranes his neck to get a glimpse of whatever it is Dean might be seeing at the tree line. Which is, predictably, a whole lot of nothing. "Dean, I don't see anything."

Dean continues to gaze pointedly out of the window, muttering to himself in an argumentative tone, but Sam can't pick up on any of the words well enough to know what the hell he's saying.

"Okay," Sam says, swallowing ineffectually against the sandpaper coating of his throat. "You've got about thirty seconds to convince me why I shouldn't haul your ass into the nearest emergency room."

"You first," Dean clips, with bright eyes. Because he's not one to back down from a challenge.

"What are you talking about – "

"Do I look like I'm in a mood for bullshit, Sam?" Said with complete coherence and clarity, but it's a trick of the light, because Dean's tipping the scales back in the direction of screwed and unresponsively unconscious.

But one thing Sam can't argue is the tickle building low in his throat, not from thirst, but from something inexplicably damaged deep inside. An ominous, still-developing hindrance from executing that first trial.

"Okay," he relents unhappily.

Sam's spirits don't pick back up until he spots the first sign of life along the road, a prairie-themed mom-and-pop general store. He doesn't give a shit about the theme of the place, just the cooler display stocked with cold water.

The water soothes the ache in his throat but not the tickle buried underneath, and he coughs a little blood into a cupped hand after Dean finally passes out in the back. Sam wipes the mess along the leg of his jeans, where it will be all-too-easy to play off as his brother's blood.

They can dance around the truth as long as they want, but there's no doubt about it. They're in for a rough ride.


	5. North Carolina: A Hard Habit to Break

_Author Note: Heeeeeey. S'been a while, huh? I remember when I posted the last chapter, I was ashamed that it had been three months since the previous installment. Now it's been 14 months. THAT definitely won't happen again. Swears._

 _Summary: H/C, S4, set after "Yellow Fever." It's only been a few weeks that Dean's been back, and it's not been as easy an adjustment as they'd like to think._

* * *

 **Atlas**

 _North Carolina: A Hard Habit to Break_

* * *

The first thing he notices, before he even works his eyes open, is blood on the seat between them. A lot of blood, a warm, ominous pool beneath his fingertips. He can't remember where the blood came from, isn't sure whether it's his brother's or his own.

The blood sticks to his fingers, and the sensation makes him aware of other things. The car is moving erratically, and pretty fucking fast, lights and shapes whizzing past in a head-spinning, gut-churning, and truly unappreciated sort of way. He realizes that he doesn't remember getting into the car; there's a hole in his memory you could drive a truck through, and that's not a great sign.

It takes some effort but he drags his fingers from the tacky pool on the bench seat, lifts his heavy, uncooperative hand and moves it to his lap, works it up his chest. Begins the slow exercise of searching out a wound. A source for all this blood.

Finds none, and his movement draws the attention of his brother.

"Sammy?" Dean calls from beside him. "You with me?"

His brother's voice is a soft, worrisome rasp belaying the fact he's not only in some serious pain, but is precariously balanced in a delicate and all-too-familiar window of coherency, one that resides snugly between waning adrenaline and rising exhaustion.

"Dean?" Sam stares at the blood staining his fingers, raises his hand into the intermittent yellow glow of passing streetlights. There's too much blood in his life these days, and he know now, for sure, this blood isn't his own. "You bleeding?"

"What?" Dean croaks. He doesn't take his eyes off of the road, clears his throat and shifts on the seat with a grimace. "Nah, not too bad."

 _Liar_ , Sam silently argues, the word hot on his tongue and his brother's blood thick on his hand. "What happened?"

"You hit your head."

 _Obviously._ "You hit…" He can't remember what Dean hit, or what hit Dean, just that his brother went down first, and HARD. With a…a snap of teeth and flash of claws. "You okay?"

"Mm. Great." Dean turns to him for the first time, grins. It's forced, too tight and too wide, and his face is white, sweat-slicked. Pained.

"You're bleeding."

Not a question this time.

* * *

"You find anything?"

Oh, if he had a nickel… Sam glances up as his brother enters the motel room with a six-pack tucked under one arm and a greasy-bottomed bag of mid-afternoon lunch in the other.

Dean kicks the door shut behind him and empties his arms onto the narrow kitchenette counter, offers Sam a beer.

He accepts the bottle with a frown and closes his laptop, taps the pad of his thumb on the lid of the computer. A protesting twinge in his tweaked shoulder prods a protest of his own. "You know we don't have to hunt, right? We can just…hang out for a few days." _Rest_.

Dean pauses with a handful of fries halfway to his mouth, makes a face. "What do you mean we don't have to hunt? We're hunters. It's sort of right there in the name."

"I mean…" Sam sighs, picks at the label of his beer. _I mean you need a break_.

Those first couple of weeks back, Dean had crashed harder and deeper than ever, allowing unexpectedly easy opportunities for Sam to sneak out for a few hours here and there. But he's not been sleeping well lately, not since the Frank O'Brien case. He's been tense and wired, and dangerously over-caffeinated. They've been hunting almost non-stop – which is fine by Sam – but he can tell his brother's heart isn't in it.

 _I'm fine. You want to go hunting? I'll hunt. I'll kill anything._

He's doing his damnedest to make good on that statement, but it's painfully obvious Dean's putting on a show, trying to overcompensate for the ghost sickness getting to his head. He's desperate to find solid ground here, not to mention keep up with his little brother, completely unaware of the fact he never will.

And he's just not ready to know why.

"Nothing," Sam finishes, lamely, because he's getting twitchy himself, hasn't been able to hook up with Ruby in a while. A fresh bit of violence might do well to take some of the edge off. He knows that such a thought should give him pause, but he doesn't allow it to.

Dean lifts his chin with an approving sort of smirk, digs into the paper bag for a pair of wrapped burgers. He hands one over to Sam, gestures to the computer. "So?"

Having lost his appetite in the wake of serious thoughts, Sam sets the sandwich side, waves off a box of fries. He nods, sighs. "I might have found us something, yeah."

Dean unwraps his own lunch, sucks grease from his thumb with a bob of his head. "That's my boy."

"Yeah." Sam opens the lid of the laptop and his brother comes around the table, hovers over his shoulder. "Bladenboro, North Carolina."

Dean snaps his fingers. "Wait a minute," he says, mouth full. "Do I know that?"

"You might. It's a pretty old urban legend. The, uh, Beast of Bladenboro. Accounts of attacks and sightings originated in the fifties, but they tapered off within a couple of years. Experts say it was a cougar." Sam pulls up a black and white image of a rotted, mutilated cow, curls his lip down at his burger.

Dean makes a noise in his throat, straightens. "S'one hell of a cougar." He glances appraisingly at his own burger, shrugs and takes another big bite. "And we think it's a…"

"Not sure," Sam answers honestly, scratching at his cheek. "The attacks started up again in '06. Livestock, mostly, but the local papers have attributed some recent missing persons to the, uh, beast. Including this one, a college student who disappeared last week."

His brother is silent a moment, reading the article over Sam's shoulder. "Okay," he says. "I'll kill it, but I'm not calling it that."

"Fair enough." Sam leans back in his chair, glances at his watch and then slaps his hands against his thighs. "All right, well, whenever you're ready, I guess we can – "

"What are you talking about? I'm ready now."

Sam tilts his head, takes a good long look at his brother. Hell certainly hasn't agreed with him, and the past few weeks haven't been easy. In Pennsylvania, Dean had marveled over his straight fingers and lack of scars, but he's already gone to work rebuilding the collection. The mark of his left eyebrow from Jack the rugaru is only faintly visible, but it's there, along with fading bruises and healing cuts, and a limp he's been trying – and failing – to hide for about a week now. "Dean…"

" _Sam,_ " his brother returns.

And Sam is rendered silent, because while Dean's not quite the same as he was before, that tone sure is.

"Come on, Sammy." Dean gives him a greasy clap on the back, crams the last of his burger into his mouth and chew noisily. "We're losing daylight."

They pack up the room, and on the way to the door Sam scoops up the Impala's keys from the counter without thinking. He trots around to the driver's side of the car and swings the door open before he feels the heat of his brother's gaze burning twin holes into his back.

He freezes with his hand wrapped around the window frame, raises his eyes guilty to where Dean is standing at the curb.

It's only been a few weeks that Dean's been back, and it's not been as easy an adjustment as they'd like to think.

* * *

The car swerves, and a towel, dark with blood, dislodges from where it's been crammed between the seat and Dean's side. The wadded, saturated cotton doesn't go far, sticks in the blood on the bench.

He hadn't thought of the upholstery, but had worried enough to grab something for the injury, and that means something. That's not a good sign. Neither is the white-knuckled, two-handed grip Dean keeps on the steering wheel, not risking control of the giant car for long enough to put the towel back against his side.

Sam frowns, knowing his brother's not strong enough – that he hasn't been since he got back – and he should do something to help. But his thoughts are soupy and his body won't respond.

Dean sucks in a harsh breath, finally takes his right hand from the wheel and moves it shakily down to his side.

Sam's eyes sluggishly track the motion, find the plume of crimson coloring the thigh of his brother's jeans.

* * *

The images he's been able to find – of desiccated cattle carcasses and body-wide blood trails – don't leave much room for interpretation, and they walk into the woods expecting claws, or teeth. In this case, both.

It's not a vampire, or a werewolf, or even a wendigo. But whatever the fucker is, it's strong. Fast.

Dean gets two shots off before it takes him to the ground, with an alarmed shout and the sort of bone-jarring _thud_ that spurs Sam into action, and he races toward his fallen brother.

By the time he reaches Dean's side, the "beast" is rearing back with a screeching, unearthly howl and a blade buried in its neck to the hilt, dark blood spurting in a wild arc. Beneath its flailing limbs, Dean is wide-eyed and gasping for breath, scrambling out of the way.

Satisfied for the moment that his brother is up and moving, Sam pulls up short and takes aim with the double-barrel, right between the thing's beady eyes. But the fucker's FAST, and his shot goes wide, chasing a dark blur as it disappears into the trees with a violent swish of dried leaves.

It's still out there, and Sam can't risk swapping shotgun for flashlight; he settles for a brief wash of moonlight to scan his brother for any sign of injury. "You good?"

"Yeah, I'm good." Dean straightens with a groan, a hiss. "You get it?"

"No," Sam admits grimly, returning his eyes to the tree line.

"What the hell is it?" Dean asks, somewhat breathlessly.

"Can't tell." Sam's heart thumps wildly as he moves the barrel along the tree, drawn by a rustle of leaves, a snapping twig.

Dean waves dismissively, then doubles over with his hands on his knee. "Piece of shit just took one of my best knives with it, Sam. It's dead."

Sam squints into the foliage. "Yeah," he concedes slowly, still not convinced. He doesn't loosen his grip on the gun, doesn't move his finger from the trigger.

It comes at him from the side, throws him across the clearing.

Sam can hear his brother shouting his name, but couldn't say what it is he hits on the way down. Doesn't even feel it.

* * *

"How'd you kill it?" Sam mumbles, pressing a hand to the side of his aching head.

"Was mostly dead already." Dean takes the interstate on-ramp too quickly and suddenly, like he'd almost missed it. In the harsh wash of yellow streetlights overhead, he looks sickly pale, usually faint freckles standing out against his washed-out complexion. He swallows, and his hand slips and spins the steering wheel, sends the Impala careening sideways before he corrects their course.

Sam shoves up straighter, steadies himself with a hand against the dash. "Dean?"

His brother tightens his fingers around the wheel and lifts his chin, acknowledging Sam's call, but he doesn't say a word. Without warning, Dean's head begins to droop, his eyelids swiftly following suit.

Sam's own head is hot and pounding and his reflexes are shot; the Impala drifts completely into the neighboring, thankfully empty lane before he gains control of the wheel, yanking it sharping to the right.

Dean flops against the door, and Sam kicks his brother's foot out of the way, guides the car to a jerky, ungraceful stop on the narrow shoulder.

He slams the gearshift into 'park' and jams two fingers beneath Dean's jaw, breathing heavily and ordering himself not to puke. His brother's skin is cool but his pulse is fast. Too fast.

"Dammit," Sam breathes.

This is his fault. All of it. He'd given in, and gone looking for hunts. For kills. He's kept them busy, and working, and told himself that it was the best thing for Dean when Sam knew damn well how selfish he was being. He's been so desperate to help his brother get his footing back, because he _needs_ Dean back. Needs him _strong_.

But Dean's not ready.

A few cars pass by but it's the middle of the night, and no one stops. Sam gingerly relocates his brother's head from where it had cracked against the door to the seatback, then moves aside layers of blood-dampened jacket and shredded shirt to uncover a pair of nasty-looking, still bleeding trenches dug into Dean's side.

"Hate to break it to you, big brother," Sam says softly, "but you're hide's not so baby smooth anymore." He folds the already bloody hand towel into something resembling a proper compress, presses it firmly to the wounds.

Dean makes a strangled noise of protest or pain, but doesn't fully rouse.

Sam sits back against the seat, swipes his hand across his forehead, and squints at their surroundings. The adrenaline has sort of worked to clear his head and they shouldn't more than a few miles from a motel; he can make it, can push through the lingering ring in his ears and the sirens going off in his skull.

He's been carrying his brother for weeks now, and can surely get them safely down this last stretch of highway.


End file.
